December calendar 2017
by I'm Nova
Summary: Once again, 31 snippets for the highlight of my year, Hades Lord of the Dead's challenge. Which means...expect anything! (Also, fair warning, I'm a Johnlocker and it might slip in my writing every now and then).
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing, as usual. A. N. Bless Hades Lord of the Dead for faithfully organising this challenge every year despite real life getting in the way. My first prompt comes from Winter Winks 221: Heartfelt memories. Thank you!_

It was the first time I visited Holmes in the spring, after his move to Sussex, and – even if he hadn't wanted to expound on it (which he did) – it would have been impossible not to notice his new companions. The bees were softly buzzing all over the garden, and I thanked my lucky stars that I wasn't allergic. I couldn't help myself, and asked, "So…whence did the idea for this new fascinating project of yours come, my dear?"

Holmes half smiled. "You don't believe that their complex social structure would have been enough to tempt me into investigating bees' mores, then?" he countered.

I didn't exactly have a rational argument for why I felt the story was longer than that, so I just shrugged.

"You know me too well by now, old boy," my friend acknowledged, making my heart swell with pride. "Actually, it's a sort of a family tradition."

"Oh, really?" I queried, eager as always for more insight on Holmes.

"Really, I did tell you about my French ancestors, Watson. My favourite – not just on my mother's side of the family, but my favourite relative in general, I confess – was mémé…I mean, my French grandmother. She was a brilliant woman, and a sweet one at the same time. Combining the two is more than most people manage to attain, me included. She lived in Provence, near Avignon, and she would welcome us every summer, if we liked, and never forgot to send us the honey of her hives for Christmas. Both Mycroft and I were fonder of it than it might be wise, I admit. I know I cannot possibly hope to recreate it, as our flora is wildly different from the one found in the south of France. Still, it seemed like a worthy pursuit for my retirement," the former sleuth recounted, an unusually warm light in his grey eyes.

"That is a lovely goal, Holmes," I acknowledged. "I would offer my contribution, but I'm afraid I wouldn't be capable to do much more than taste-test."

He laughed. "That, my friend, will be quite enough, I assure you."


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Nothing mine, of course. A.N. This prompt comes from cjnwriter: By some glitch in the fabric of space-time, Watson discovers the sleeved blanket. How do he and Holmes react?  
Thanks! Doctor Who mix because he's my favourite timey-wimey expedient. ;D By the way, police boxes started red in 1800s…_

The strange noise made Watson turn into a side alley to check. Something odd was definitely going on. He blinked seeing what looked like a wrongly-coloured police box disappear. Had Holmes slipped him something without his knowledge? He really wished his friend wouldn't do that.

Something was left dropped on the street after the disappearance. It looked like a wine-red blanket at first. A second look persuaded him it might be a gown – there were sleeves, after all. A third look made him go back to the blanket hypothesis. What the hell was this?

Well, whatever it was, it looked warm, and the owner wasn't going to be back for it. Might as well bring it back home and see what Holmes made of it. It might amuse him for five minutes.

The detective welcomed the challenge with a smile. Any, "Deduce this, if you can," was always a pleasure. He took the cloth, turned it this way and that, then asked the doctor to add any data about the finding he could.

Which meant Watson admitting his likely hallucination (if he'd been drugged, the sleuth would like to know the effects anyway) and even imitating the sound that attracted him in the first place.

As soon as he heard it, Holmes smiled. "Oh, then it's obvious. I know it's hard to believe, but ask my brother if you don't believe me – you know he's not a prankster. The person who forgot this is an alien, and not from some else European country. He also voyages through time – there is evidence of him dating at least back to the Elizabethan era, and he implied more than once that he's seen the future. So I assume at some point this…thing will be in fashion," he explained.

"I would believe you're joking, if I hadn't seen something disappear in front of my very eyes. Even if I know you don't have any compunction about making a fool out of me, you wouldn't purposefully dose me with an hallucinogen simply for the sake of a joke. I trust that you know better than that by now. Now, I would very much question the sanity of our descendants for creating this, but the question here is…What should we make of it? Mrs. Hudson would be very puzzled at its appearance in the flat," the doctor replied, letting the object flow in his hands.

"Very true, my dear," the detective concurred, "but I believe someone will be less outraged at its unusual appearance. Wiggins' family might enjoy it, don't you think? Actually, I might need to ask my brother to contact the Doctor for more…"

His Boswell chuckled. "I hardly thing these will come with a prescription, Holmes."

"Oh, sorry. The time-travelling alien behind this calls himself the Doctor. Maybe we should organise a meeting between you two so you can examine him and see if it's a well-deserved title or empty boasting."


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: still nothing mine, duh. ;D A.N. The prompt comes from mrspencil: Holmes discovers a use for glitter. Thank you! :D This needed a bit of research, because I wasn't sure glitter was a thing in 1800 (it appears the modern one was created in 1934, and by then Holmes looked a bit too old for glitter to me, sorry XD) so this is what I found: By the 19th century, however, glitter was most often made from powdered or ground glass. It came in any color that glass came in and was often marketed under the name "diamantine." As an 1896 article syndicated from The New York Sun explained, the ornamental effect was achieved by coating fabric in glue and rolling it in glass powder. Still, I'm pretty sure this is 99% horribly wrong for the time period…sorry about that. ^^'''_

Scotland Yard always treaded lightly when a murder happened in a noble family, much more so when it happened during a Christmas Eve ball. They needed to close the case as soon as humanly possible, and not to hurt the delicate sensibilities of any of the guests by suggesting they might be implicated in the fact, even when half of them had one reason or another to resent their host.

Calling in Sherlock Holmes was the most natural reaction. He was known by now, thanks to the doctor's stories, to be the best…but more importantly, he was self-sufficient and impossible to intimidate.

The consulting detective arrived immediately and strode on the crime scene with his usual confidence, ignoring everyone who wanted to pitch in with their own theory, which sadly meant most of the guests. The man glared openly at the ones who tried to push their way on the crime scene for some morbid sense of curiosity.

Watson trotted behind him, and was actually in charge of making sure that they didn't gain the hatred of several mid-level dynasties today. How the doctor managed to soothe ruffle feathers quickly enough not to be left too behind by his companion was a mystery of his own. Such a talent bordered on magical…then again, he certainly had plenty of training.

Holmes' exam of the body and the surrounding area was so swift that most guests probably believed he had at most glanced at it, but the ones who knew him were aware that he had noticed every detail. Afterwards, he mingled among the guests, still without saying a word but observing them in a way that left them frowning.

Ten minutes later, he was back at Gregson's side with a sigh. "Honestly, you should have solved this yourself if you weren't too afraid to step on someone's toes. Just look at the dead body! He hasn't just been strangled…his throat has suffered a number of small cuts that would make no sense from a killer's point of view. It's not torture, it's not a defence wound in case the victim managed to get a hand in and tried to fight the attacker off, scratching himself in the process. This is what you get if you strangle someone with a sash more sturdy than it looks…one coated in glass fragments, to make it appropriately shiny for the season," he explained.

"Seriously? But wouldn't it be obvious if the murderer was still wearing the weapon, or if it had been suddenly 'discarded' very recently?" Gregson objected, frowning.

"Not if it was red, right, Holmes? After all, it's not like our victim got his throat slashed…" Watson pointed out, "True, such a feat would require considerable sang froid, but we mustn't underestimate the ladies."

"Exactly, Watson," the sleuth replied, smiling proudly at him, "and with my test, we can determine exactly if the colour is just from the glass pigmentation, maybe some stray red wine, or actual blood… If I were you, Gregson, I'd start with the very conveniently dressed lady of the house. Our victim might not be as blameless as one would like."

The following moments saw a good deal of chaos…but the guests went home excitedly whispering that this was the most interesting party they'd ever had.


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: Still owning nothing. A. N. Today's prompt comes once again from Winter Winks 221: Doctor's orders. Thanks!_

"We talked about this, Holmes," Watson said sternly, glaring at his abed flatmate.

" _You_ talked, you mean," the sleuth countered, before succumbing to an access of cough.

"If you wish to put it like that, sure. But need I remind you which of us is the certified doctor and which is the unruly patient? I'm only trying to ensure you heal as quickly and smoothly as possible, my dear," Watson replied, somehow not losing his cool despite this being the nth time such a conversation happened.

"But I'm bored," Holmes objected, as if this should end the argument. A long case draining him in the middle of the wintry season had ensured that he caught a vicious cold, with a hacking cough to boot. It was so bad that his head felt full of cotton, so his usual intellectual pursuits went out of the window. Despite the doctor's insistences, every now and then the man would fight the crushing boredom by smoking. Apparently being ill ruined his famed logical brain too, and a momentary pleasure ranked higher than healing promptly.

Watson didn't want to, but he had only one option left. "Listen to me, Holmes. Fine. I can't be your guardian…and since you refuse to heed my words, I cannot be your doctor, either. I will always be your friend, and help you out as I can. But by ignoring me, you're setting yourself up to develop pneumonia. Just tell me which doctor you would trust, and I'll bring them promptly…I do hope you'll obey to _their_ orders," he declared, sighing tiredly.

Holmes' hand flew outside the covers to snatch his companion's arm. "No one else," he rasped. " _Stay_." Another cough, then he added, "But maybe…hide the tobacco better?"

His Boswell nodded solemnly. "I'm an idiot, you know. I'm not smoking either at the moment, as that wouldn't help you at all…so why I didn't think of bringing our reserve at my club, I have no idea. I do trust you won't leave the flat in this weather," he said.

The grateful smile he received was better than the most vehement of assurances.


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: Obviously, I own nothing. A.N. Today's prompt comes from Book girl fan: Moran and Watson find an unexpected kinship. Thank you for this! As far as timing goes, I based myself on the website sutori.c0m_ _/ story / sherlock-holmes-timeline (had to omit the start of the address but it is the same for all internet sites - just secure connection, so add s to the HT etc and you should be able to reconstruct the page's address. Sorry I can't just link)._

The most astute among my readers will have noticed the discrepancy between my being aware of Moriarty's role as criminal mastermind in the case I named The Valley of Fear, set in 1886, and my obliviousness of him in 1891, when Holmes took on the Napoleon of Crime to his end. If I'm lucky, they'll believe it a correction by the Strand editors, who needed to introduce Moriarty's character in the earliest work where he appeared, and didn't wish to bother with it when he was already a well-known villain. But the guilt for once doesn't lay at their feet.

We were both well aware of Moriarty's doings by 1886 – well, Holmes was well aware, and since he would share his concerns – this not exactly relating to any ongoing cases, he didn't feel the need to keep silent about it – I obviously was too. But he stopped his frustrated tirades about the Professor in the years…the more he discovered, the less he talked about him. Whether it was because he considered it a case by then, and wanted to maintain his reserve about it, or whether he thought the less I knew, the least in danger I would be, I would never be sure.

While he conducted his private investigation in the web the Professor created, I'd stumbled into part of it by myself, and quite unknowingly. A friend of a friend – all past brother in arms – had introduced me to Sebastian Moran. At the time, I had no idea he worked as sniper-for-hire, or that he would regularly supplement his income by cheating, of course. I wish I had Holmes with me that night, to read through the man immediately.

Instead, all I saw was a neat man, with a warm smile, and a fondness for remembering the good ol' times, and a bit of nostalgia for his hunting days, whose exploits – our common friends assured me – were understated if anything. I felt rather embarrassed that the highlight of my hunting career was when that poor tiger cub stumbled into my tent (someone else having killed its mother the day before), but as Moran himself pointed out amiably, _he_ hadn't saved dozen of lives every day.

We hit it off, and of course our chatting eventually came to our more recent days. We were both blessed with quirky but brilliant friends, and to my shame, I admit that, warmed by a good drink, we both commiserated together. It was hard having to deal with people who'd wake us up because they were enlightened in the middle of the night, or treated like idiots because we didn't see the 'glaringly obvious' – which was not so obvious to us. Still, we wouldn't break off such relationship for the world. It was only in the end that he mentioned that his genius friend was the famous professor Moriarty, and I had to cover a shiver.

Part of me said I needed to use this acquaintance to investigate. But if the man was aware of Moriarty's shady dealings, he wouldn't go chatting about it to a relative stranger after one brandy. Moran had at least enough self-preservation for that. Another part of me said that I needed to run now, and never come near the man again.

I am ashamed to admit that the option which eventually won was to keep up our relationship for years, until the man disappeared – to hunt a still living Holmes, as I discovered years later. For some months, I honestly thought he'd killed himself and followed his master to hell. We never 'talked shop' in details, of course. Neither of us were so careless.

But who else could relate to having someone you looked up to and that drove you absolutely spare at the same time? Who else would only nod, empathising, when – as a civilian – you were ordered to drop everything and head you weren't even sure where, and you did, because the chance of objecting didn't even enter your head?

That was the reason I pretended to have forgotten Moriarty when 1891 rolled around. I was more aware of the man's idiosyncrasies (about tea, his clothes, and other minor, silly things) that I had any right to be…If that slipped out, persuading Holmes that no, I wasn't now on the Professor's payroll, and neither was I aware of his plans, would be too hard a task. My friend needed me at his side then. And my choice had been done years earlier.


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. A.N. Today's prompt comes from mrspencil: a surprising act by Moriarty. Thanks!_

Moriarty wasn't famous as a very compassionate man. Not among his pupils – either you were brilliant, or no excuse would save you from a scathing tirade and your 'deserved' grade – and even less among his associates in clandestine activities. They would have sworn that the festivities could influence him less than the horoscope, too (and his opinion of _that_ was very harsh).

But miracles did happen at Christmas, evidently, and Moran witnessed one during a crisp December morning. Moriarty had called him for some instructions, and then invited him along on his constitutional. Not that his company was needed, but the colonel suspected that Moriarty thought of it like an emperor being followed by his praetorian, and who was he to object?

Walking along, Moriarty stopped suddenly, much to his companion's surprise. There wasn't a bookshop or another shop that might have attracted his attention. "What?" the sniper asked.

His boss raised a hand in a stern gesture to keep him silent. Moran obeyed, of course, but wondered to what the other might be so intently listening. It was a completely ordinary day. Seeing the man dash towards a heap of garbage, the former soldier wondered for a minute if the man had finally lost his marbles. The professor had always been peculiar, but at the very least he was the most neat and proper man Moran knew.

Seeing Moriarty come back cuddling a mangy…something, Moran couldn't stop a bemused grin. "What's that?" he queried.

"Are you blind? She's the most wonderful kitten, Moran! Sure, she needs food and warmth and proper care, but I know she'll be a lovely companion."

"She'll give you fleas," the sniper said flatly, "and die on you in a week. She's too tiny."

"Are you saying I can't take care of her? I assure you, she will live much longer than some people I know. And I hope you don't aim to be on that list," Moriarty snapped.

"Whoa, let's not take rushed decisions now, shall we, boss? Anyway, assume she lives. She's not a dog, you can't train her. She'll just turn your curtains and rug to strips, and the rest of the furniture, too," the former colonel pointed out, frowning.

"Good thing that I have enough funds to replace them, then, isn't it? Let's head back, we need to get her settled," the professor replied, then started making soft cooing sound in the back of his throat and turned back, not deigning his companion of a look.

To Moran's surprise, the tiny ball of fur grew up, and from that day she could often be seen rubbing against Moriarty's ankles or draped around him like a purring scarf. And as a mocking – Moran was sure of it – her master called the orange tabby Tiger. The only one Moran couldn't even gare at, much less touch.


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: nothing mine, duh. A. N. Today's prompt comes from cjnwriter: A treasure hunt! (Of some sort or other) Thanks! :D_

Watson entered the flat smiling to himself. "What are you up to now, Holmes?" he queried.

"In general or specifically?" the sleuth replied, looking at him from the settee. He was feeling lazy at the moment, but 'nothing' was clearly not the answer his friend was after.

"I met Wiggins earlier, while going on a house call. He told me you've requested all the Irregulars to track down Captain Basil," the doctor mentioned, ensconcing himself with a happy sigh.

"You didn't give my game up, did you?" the detective asked, frowning.

"Of course not. Really, you should know me by now. But I am curious, naturally. Why would you set them after yourself, my dear?" Watson said, raising an eyebrow.

"Half game, half training, and just a bit of a test too. I need to trust them to find criminals that are very much not keen on being located. And every year I have some new recruits. So I don a disguise, go around, and leave a few clues here and there, that they should be able to follow if I can still trust them for the job. When they realise the truth, and call me out on my deception, they get treated to the best hot chocolate and baked goods that Mrs. Hudson can offer," Holmes explained, "They haven't failed me yet."

"That is a lovely tradition, Holmes," the doctor remarked. His friend could say it was training or a test all he wanted. He clearly just needed an excuse to treat his Irregulars during the coldest, often most miserable part of the year. Watson wouldn't call him out on the kindness of his heart.


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: once again, nothing mine. A.N. Today's prompt comes from Hades Lord of the Dead: Watson attends a seance in hopes he may be able to contact his deceased wife; Holmes disapproves. Thank you! :D Ooops…I wrote this all and then I realised I missed the exact prompt. But I am feeling not at my best today, so instead of rewriting it all I'm just saying, "Close enough". Hope that you enjoy it all the same!_

It was all Doyle's fault, obviously. How the man could have become a doctor when, instead of a scientific analysis of situation, he would believe the most far-fetched fantasies anyone threw at him was a mystery that Holmes would never be able to solve.

The sleuth could only dream of the perfect parallel universe (that made as much sense as anything Doyle blabbered about, anyway) where his Boswell was introduced to the Strand's publishers by…honestly, anyone else would have been better. If Doyle's tastes had just resulted in literary gifts of dubious quality, or hours of boredom, it wouldn't have mattered so much.

But the anniversary of Mary Watson's death was fast approaching, and his friend's mood soured correspondingly. If it was up to him, he would have found a case and dragged Watson away from the memories. There was nothing like a good mystery to keep one's mind as much as possible diverted from mournful thoughts. Sadly, the criminal classes had been oddly uncooperative, and before he could decide if he should beg Mycroft for a case (politicians could be maladroit in the extreme) or straight-up forge a case, preferably abroad, Doyle had struck.

A séance. A dratted séance. As if having a conversation with someone impersonating Mary, maybe using a falsetto tone, could give closure to his friend. And his friend had been charmed by that idea. Well, not the impersonation, of course. He truly hoped to have contact with his late wife.

Holmes had snapped that dead souls should have better things to do than crowd around a random person and answer the call to chat with relatives, like enjoying heaven. Also, wasn't there something in the Bible against that?

All that had obtained, though, was to make Watson glare at him, and ensure he'd be excluded from the event, as 'negative' people were unwelcome. So he couldn't even observe and expose the so-called medium's tricks immediately.

Honestly, if he believed that it would have helped his friend, the detective wouldn't have said a word. But could barefaced lies help anyone deal with grief? He'd seen enough death on his cases to believe that truth was always a better option.

Holmes was quite sure that his prayer was blaspheme, but he couldn't help but wish that an actual case interesting enough to make his friend forget all about this ridiculous plan would happen before the séance took place. If it required a locked room murder, so be it.


	9. Chapter 9

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. Today's prompt comes from Kitschgeist: Dubious and questionable memory. Thank you! My mind was empty for a long time, then I decided to blatantly steal a plot point from another mystery I read (the detective was Dickson Carr's Bencolin). :D_

"But Holmes, how can that man be the thief? He's the only one with a confirmed alibi! He was at the casino all along, miles from the crime scene," Watson pointed out, frowning. His friend never forgot a case's detail, much less something this significant! Was he unwell?

"And if he'd been playing cards, I would have excluded him. Because everyone would be staring at the other players, trying to guess how good his hand was. But he said that his vice of choice is the roulette. You know more about such games than I do, my dear, but find me someone at that table staring at anything else but the hypnotic rolling of the ball, and I'll owe you ten pounds," the detective challenged with a grin.

"Don't encourage my betting streak," the doctor replied, shaking his head.

"You're not a saint, old boy. Given where we are, I thought that keeping bets between ourselves was the best I could hope for, tonight. And if you manage to prove me wrong, I will have precious data. But if you can't…A boisterous arrival will make sure one's noticed, and then – when everyone else is engrossed in the game – just as long as one doesn't trample anyone, slipping away quietly is easy. You said, 'miles away', but there are shortcuts that reduce that greatly. The theft was planned. Our man would definitely have mapped the route. Afterwards, if he came back without raising a fuss, everyone would swear he'd been there all along."

Watson's eyes lighted with understanding. "It's not very fair to make a bet you know I can't win, Holmes," he remarked, with a half-smile.

"Well, if you give up, I hope you'll help me ensure our criminal confesses," the consulting detective said.

"Do you really need to ask?"


	10. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer: still not owning a thing. A.N. Today's prompt comes from Book girl fan: "Please, sir. Not on Christmas!" Thank you! I had fun with this one. Researched a bit of Victorian slang because I was in the mood, but don't count on me to do so every day. ;D Skinners were women who made their living luring children into alleys, stripping them, and selling their clothing, leaving their frightened young victims naked in the street. (Wow, never knew this was a thing!) Nobblers was one of the names given those among the underworld who inflicted bodily harm, often in the form of severe beatings, to anyone transgressing the Victorian criminal's "code" — especially those serving as informers to the police. A zounderkite_ _was_ _a complete idiot who constantly made clumsy and awkward mistakes._

You would think that hardened criminals that made their living under the Professor's orders would obey unquestioningly. Especially since every single one of Moriarty's plan was a brilliant success. To Moran's surprise, though, sometimes even usually ruthless thugs could suddenly grow a conscience around the holidays. It was galling.

"Please, sir. Not on Christmas!" the Jones couple, Ella, the skinner and her husband, nobbler Arthur, pleaded in one voice.

The former Colonel only rolled his eyes. "Yes, on Christmas! Not on Christmas Eve neither on Boxing Day. You'll do what you're supposed to do or I'll find someone else to do it, and then I'll have to deal with your insubordination. You don't want that, do you?" he snapped.

"But, sir…Christmas," Arthut bleated again, as if it should have any bearing on their plans.

"I should just take you out here and now, but you're usually good hands, so I'll explain why Christmas in small words. Just this once, mind. Any further objection from any of you from now on will be treated with a bullet, are we understood?" Moran said, glaring at them, arms crossed.

They had the good sense to nod.

"If we take the little Lord on any other day, his parents' first thought will be to find us and make us pay. Call the police. Maybe even some more private detectives just because. Things will drag on, and there's a chance someone will find you. Which you don't want, yes?" the sniper explained.

They nodded again, more eagerly this time.

"On Christmas? They'll behave just like you two idiots. 'Oh, not on Christmas!' His parents will do anything we ask to have their precious heir returned before the day is gone. And then they'll celebrate. And then, the morning after – or the afternoon, if they drink enough – they'll remember they should really call the police. By then, any clues you left behind should have been destroyed by the revelries. So, unless you mean to change job and offer yourselves as nannies, I suggest you leave your ridiculous fancies behind and follow your orders," Moran concluded. For once, he empathised strongly with his boss. How did the Professor manage being constantly surrounded by zounderkites?

The Joneses gaped at him. "You're a genius, sir!"

He sighed. "No, I'm not. You're idiots. Now, shoo. You have your orders. I don't want to hear from you until it's done."


	11. Chapter 11

_Disclaimer: Nothing mone. A.N. Today's prompt comes from mrspencil: Star gazing. Thank you, my dear!_

Moran was used to long vigils. As much as he should be focused on noticing any movement, the odd glance at the starlit sky was inevitable. Staring unflinchingly ahead was the way to fall inadvertently in a daze and actually miss eventual signs, after all.

The Indian sky was much brighter than the one back home, muddled by the everlasting London fog. The stars were familiar, almost comforting. Or they should have been.

Honestly, what was the blasted detective thinking? This was his turf, much more than Holmes' one. Why would the man run to the Himalaya? It wasn't exactly the first hideout that jumped to mind…

Now, if only he could stand guard until the murderer (yep, he was a murderer, just like them, let's not play around) went by here, like he had to, this could be solved today. Months later than it should be, but still, it was something.

If only the wind didn't carry so much dust…or if the blasted stars didn't make him feel Moriarty's absence so much keenly. They used to be nothing more than tiny pinpricks of light. They still were, because he wasn't the type to study the constellations or anything silly like that. But knowing they were now so much more obscure to this world, with the Professor's untimely demise…they looked more remote. Less bright, somehow.

Oh well. A little splash of red would restore their splendour, he was sure.


	12. Chapter 12

_Disclaimer: I still don't own a thing. A.N. Today's prompt comes from Winter Winks 221: sodium acetate. I have no idea of the workings of a Victorian kitchen, but this was my first thought (Watson's idiosyncrasies are modelled after my mum's ^^''')._

It was nothing, really. Accidents happen. Still, Mrs. Hudson wondered how she had ever hired such an easily shocked assistant. They were busy cooking lunch, the landlady in charge of the baking as Margaret wasn't yet vetted near enough to be allowed it, and with reason, as the day evidenced.

Margaret was supposed to prepare the salad at the same time, which would usually happen much later. But the doctor had said that he found it more easily digestible if it'd been prepared a few hours earlier later than seconds before the meal, giving the dressing time to 'settle down'. Holmes didn't mind at all – the detective was a deeply frustrating man to cook for, really – so the salad had been moved at the start rather than at the end of their lunch routine.

That was the reason this could happen at all: Mrs. Hudson had just added some baking soda to her dough. Before she could stir it in with the rest, Margaret stumbled – not tripped by anything, as if she needed a aggravating circumstance – and the vinegar she was carrying poured on the dough. It ruined the mixture, and ordinarily Mrs. Hudson would have scolded her sternly.

But when the inevitable happened, and the baking soda started bubbling, Margaret let out such a shriek that the landlady felt bound to comfort her. The poor maid was pointing at the bubbles, as if she'd never seen that. Mrs, Hudson wondered why, given that it was a combination she often suggested for laundry. What did people do in her previous households, honestly?

"Is that…should it…?" the girl whimpered.

The landlady sighed deeply. "Yes, it should. It really should. But of course, it shouldn't happen during the baking. It's a chemical reaction, if less smelly than the ones Mr. Holmes so loves. You'll need a lot more training for your own work, though, so I wouldn't consider taking up his same hobby if I were you, dearie."


	13. Chapter 13

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. Today's prompt is from Hades Lord of the Dead: Watson's brother reappears despite his apparent death. Thank you so much!_

I don't know how I would have reacted if this had happened years earlier. Probably, I would have fainted again. But meeting my supposedly dead (and a full ten years before, too!) brother at the Criterion, looking plump and well dressed more than I'd ever seen him, I didn't react outrageously. I just marched to his table, glared at him and snapped, "Not. You. Too!"

"Uh? What are you talking about, Johnny, my lad?" my brother replied, cheerily even, as if he couldn't see anything amiss in our meeting.

"I gather you don't read the Strand," I said, crossing my arms in front of me.

"Should I?" Henry countered, looking more deeply than before if possible. Then again, he'd never been passionate about literature.

"Not at all," I conceded, "but if you had, you might have learned a few things. One, that your little brother is now a published author, besides a doctor, so you might want to leave off that silly nicknames. Two, that my flatmate, the world's only consulting detective – he invented his own job title, would you believe – faked his death too. At least he had the decency to come back after three years, and the excuse of meddling with a criminal empire to justify keeping me in the dark. But you? What gave you the brilliant idea of playing dead for a decade without sending a line to ease my grief."

My brother laughed uproariously. I fought the urge to deck him. "Come on, we'd never been that close. I assumed you wouldn't grieve that much. Be relieved, if anything. I was on a trip, as you know, and with way too many creditors after me. So when there was an accident, I thought best to assume one of the victims' identity so I could live my life unbothered. And it worked! I've finally landed a pretty girl with more money than brains," he recounted proudly.

I grimaced in disgust, but I knew why he said that. Anyone would need to be not so smart to throw their lot in with his. "Why are you back, then?" I asked.

"Why not?" he replied. I always hated when he was like that. "Come on, Johnny, smile!"

I glared harder, if anything. As much as I'd regretted his unfortunate passing, having the man in person only reminded me of how intolerable he was. No wonder my brother had thought he wouldn't be lamented. "Well, I am busy now, sorry, but I have to go," I said, with a little half-lie.

"No worries. We'll catch up soon," he declared jovially.

Was it a sin that I wasn't eager at all for it to happen?


	14. Chapter 14

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. Today's prompt comes from Wordwielder: Sugar. You won't believe it, but this is an actual traditional African remedy which is being revived and tested right now. It works by drawing away the water that bacteria need to develop._

Fuck. I failed him. Why is everyone so stubborn?

When I told my Captain of that trick my father learned during the Xhosa campaign, he didn't tell me I was an idiot just because da wasn't a doctor. Nor because the idea came from one of the black prisoners they'd taken, who pleaded for it much to everyone's mirth, until da gave in out of curiosity.

Watson said, "Let's try it once. At worst, we'll have bitter tea a few times." And it worked, just like it worked for grandma's bedsores when she was too old to move, or for that black man, whoever he was.

We saved people with a bit of sugar paste. Why do you think everyone praised doctor Watson to high heavens? We had a lot less soldiers develop infections, and infections are what really kills people. Unless you're shot in the head, of course. Or you bleed out before a medic can get at you. Anyway, with our tea obsession, we carry a bit of sugar. Maybe not as much as we would have at home, but still. Bitter tea is worth saving people's lives.

But when I finally could hand my Captain over to some qualified doctors, and I mentioned it (of course I did) they just scoffed. And when I insisted, and then yelled, they had me thrown out and forbade me to even visit anymore.

I've asked a friend to smuggle the preparation to Watson, but he refused to get anywhere close to the wound. He agreed to visit him for me, though. He's just come back. Captain's wound is terribly infected, and the doctors think he'll develop enteric fever any moment now.

Really, fuck.


	15. Chapter 15

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. Today's prompt is from Hades Lord of the Dead: Every year Holmes goes to his parents' house for Christmas - in the first year of their friendship, Watson (who has no family left), accompanies him. Thank you! Dedicated to my dearest Muse, Ennui Enigma. Happy birthday and many happy returns, love!_

When the Christmas season of 1881 rolled around, I was, I'm afraid a terrible Scrooge. It used to be my favourite holiday as a lad. But having no family anymore, and only what scarce friends I could get back in touch with – and I didn't have much free time, between my job and accompanying Holmes on his fascinating cases – it seemed to me as if the world was out to mock my loneliness.

I tried not to let the reason of my discontent be seen, but after months with Holmes, I really should have known better. Because why else would he invite me to his own Christmas celebrations, back at his ancestral home?

I replied that I couldn't possibly intrude, of course. Told him that Mrs. Hudson's company would be plenty, and I might as well work, to spare some other, more lucky doctor from having to be on call.

"You can consider it a home call, if you wish," the sleuth pointed out, smiling.

"Oh? Is one of your relatives ill?" I queried, concerned.

"Not to my knowledge. But I know I'll lose my sanity if I am forced to bear my family's company for an extended period of time without support. Please, Watson. I know it is selfish of me, but I would love your companionship."

What could I do but laugh and agree?

That was how I found myself at the Holmes' ancestral house, and I could soon see why my presence was required. It wasn't just for my own sake. Most of my friend's extended family seemed to think his career was, at best, a hobby that absorbed him far too much. A number of cousins and aunts offered to put in a word for him if he'd just agree to attempt this or that 'regular' job, always comparing him to his older brother's stable career.

I chimed in, obviously. Multiple times. Letting everyone know how much I admired my flatmate and that just because he let the inspectors have the laurels, it didn't mean that he wasn't integral to the solution of the cases. They didn't seem entirely convinced, but certainly stopped from harassing my friend when I was in earshot…so I made a point to stay as close to him as I could.

That night, back at Baker Street, I started writing.


	16. Chapter 16

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. Today's prompt is from Winter Winks 221: the Adventure of the Elm Pipe. Thank you! That prompted a bit of research…It turns out the oldest pipes in London were made of Elm wood, and were still in decent condition in 1800s. And I looked up how elm wood smells, so this should be legit-ish, if weird._

"I can't believe it! Paying one of the servants to cause a mishap, so to be hired as a plumber, and purposefully connect the pipes wrongly so that sewer water would be used by the family and make them severely ill…that requires dedication, in a twisted way!" I blurted out.

"Don't forget adding some dye to the inside of the elm pipes so that it would be washed away from the water, in order not to make the sewer's provenience obviously but by the smell, and mentioning something about old pipes being likely to make water smell like cat piss. Which is absolutely ridiculous, wet elm wood does smell bad – when it's burned, but certainly not metal-covered and well dry, when put down, elm pipes. If only these people had bothered doing research into their own home," Holmes added, with a flourish.

"If they looked so deeply into it they very possibly would have not need of a plumber, my dear," I pointed out reasonably. "Still, everyone was saved, and there's a very nice outcome to this case."

"You like it just because you love puns. Really, I'm not entirely convinced by the cinnamon smell it adds to my tobacco…though I'm very glad this wood was thoroughly dried before carving it, or it would be much worse," my friend replied, trying an experimental drag from the latest gift from a very grateful client.

"Guilty as charged," I admitted, smiling, "You don't have to use it, of course. But at least around Christmas, you might give it a chance. Cinnamon would be in season…and the smell might remind Mrs. Hudson to get baking. You like her biscuits, don't you?"

"I always said you're cleverer than you paint yourself. Even this kind of elm pipe has a point, I suppose," Holmes remarked, extinguishing it for the moment and putting it next to the others after a quick cleaning.


	17. Chapter 17

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. Today's prompt is from cjnwriter: "Love the giver more than the gift." - Brigham Young Thanks for issuing it, but I admit I found it very hard (possibly just because I'm tired today). I bypassed the author altogether before I piss off some real life Mormons too, and the result is this silly drabble._

"Do you really want to send that pâté to Mycroft for Christmas?" Watson asked, one bright morning.

"This has been my gift for my brother for the past forty year. It's his favourite," a recently retired sleuth pointed out, clearly not seeing the issue.

"Yes, but your brother is seventy by now, and you know _his_ doctor has tried to get him to stick to a lighter diet for years," the doctor pointed out.

"Not at Christmas. You can get my brother to curb his appetites any day of the year…as long as he can't find a legitimate excuse to indulge. And Christmas definitely counts as one," Holmes pointed out. "Besides, it's tradition by now. He'd hate me if I left myself be swayed by your professional concerns."

"Are you mayhap concerned that he's more interested in pâté than fond of you, and that he would leave you alone around the holidays?" Watson queried, with a small smile.

"Well, given that at the moment I'm retired and not taking one of his silly cases, what else use am I?" Holmes queried, with a deadpan look.

"Oh come on, you can't be serious! You're his only brother, of course he loves you, not any delicacy you might provide!" his friend replied.

"I'll make you a deal: I'll send him a doctor-approved gift…but in case he disowns me, you'll have to take responsibility," the former detective said.

"Deal," Watson said, offering his hand to shake on it.


	18. Chapter 18

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. Today's prompt is from Book girl fan: a ghost of Christmas past. Thanks! I'm knackered and angsty today. But I hope this is at least decent._

Of all the people he expected at his door in December of 1891 (friends, acquaintances, patients ) Watson would have not in a million years guessed who was ringing the bell at that moment. The doctor froze, gaping, when he went to open the door and found a bundled up Mycroft Holmes with a bottle in his hands and the ghost of a smile on his lips.

How could he? …Politics, probably. The elder Holmes' job would have no patience for perceived rudeness months later even the deepest of the bereavements. Watson, honestly, didn't have the mental strength to even try to mimic it.

Last Christmas, Mycroft had called at Baker Street – obviously – one day when the doctor was visiting, and brought a small gift for his brother's previous flatmate too (and probably also for Mrs. Hudson) 'as a token of gratitude for enduring Sherlock's behaviour from someone who knows how hard that is.'

The self-appointed Boswell had smiled, thanked him, and accepted happily. But Mycroft at his door today? After he'd fallen for Moriarty's blatant (in hindsight) trick, failed his brother and indirectly caused his death?

If Holmes wasn't alone, he wouldn't be dead now. Watson had repeated it to himself like a mantra for all these months. Now, if Mycroft wanted to use the bottle he held as a club, to break it on his head, the doctor wouldn't have appreciated, but he would have understood the sentiment. But actually gifting it to him? Murmuring, "Merry Christmas, doctor," and then being on his way, as if he knew that Watson was too unable to wrap his mind about the facts to even offer him to come in for a cup of tea or mulled wine?

When had the world stopped making sense? If not for the weight of the bottle now in his hands (he'd been this close to let it fall, but then sheer reflexes made him clutch it) and Mary calling from the sitting room, asking who it was at the door, Watson would have sworn he'd just sleepwalked.


	19. Chapter 19

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. Today's prompt comes from Wordwielder: Hoof prints in the snow. Thank you!_

Wiggins sighed. It was kind of 'Olmes and the doctor (he suspected the doctor had a good deal of influence in these kind of matters) to slip them all gifts for Christmas. They were small, but useful things. He was grateful, he really was.

But they were supposed to be detectives in their own right! The whole Santa Claus pretence was useless. Even the youngest of them had no need for a story. The truth was so much sweeter. Still, some of the other children were still stubborn in their belief, even when he'd told them how illogical it was.

"But Wig', look, it must have been Santa! I found the reindeer's tracks in the snow!" Jim insisted, tugging him by the arm.

Points to him for trying to investigate, but… "Jim, these are horses' hoof prints, you see 'em every day!" Wiggins pointed out, huffing.

"But the doctor said reindeers are like big horses with horns!" Jim replied, glaring up at him.

"Yeah, so?" the older child countered, crossing his arms.

"So who's to say they don't leave the same traces?"

It wasn't that Wiggins didn't have an answer to that. He'd just learned to pick his battles. Not this year.


	20. Chapter 20

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. Today's prompt comes from Winter Winks 221: crossover between S.H and another fictional character- author's choice! Thank you! I picked Mr. Septimus R. Podgers, professional cheiromantist, from Lord Arthur Savile's Crime, just messed up his chronology a bit probably…then again there is no proper date in Wilde's story, so I hope I can be forgiven._

Every time Doyle called on us, one could be sure that Holmes' patience would be sorely tried. Their tastes were too opposite for even an evening to go on without some reciprocal glares at least. In this particular occasion, Doyle came with a quiet man that Watson at first took for another colleague. the stout, bald figure, looking at the world through big, gold-rimmed spectacles, seemed more down to earth than Doyle himself.

When their usual visitor introduced his companion as, "Mr. Podgers, cheiromantist, he's brilliantly sensitive, you'll be amazed!" the sleuth rolled his eyes. Where had the man found this new fraudster? At best, these sort of people were decent at deductions, only they used what they understood of people to make some not entirely wild guess and when it hit the mark, they gained the reputation of infallible. At worst, they managed to talk so much around people that their victim were so confused that they agreed with them.

The detective couldn't resist. "Why don't you test your powers on me…and then we can reverse places and I'll offer you some deductions on you?" he queried.

Mr. Podgers was all too ready to acquiesce, much to Doyle's enthusiasm, who proclaimed, "I finally found someone who'll make a believer out of you too!"

The cheiromantist examined Holmes' hands, he frowned, paled, frowned again and then asked to give his response in private. The sleuth shrugged but agreed. It wasn't as if he wouldn't tell Watson as soon as the man left.

"I see a great danger in your future," Mr. Podgers said, as soon as he was let in Holmes' room.

"That's obvious, given my career, don't you think? I expected better from you," the sleuth replied.

"That's not all. You confound me. nobody ever confounds me," the little man snapped, glaring.

"And this is not an acceptable excuse," the consulting detective said, glaring right back.

"Your line of life is messed up! After this danger… I would say you'd die, but then it restarts. In the middle it's basically evanescent. I've never seen anything like it!"

"Duly noted. Do you have more to say or can I read you back?" Holmes remarked.

Mr. Podgers shrugged his assent.

It was much to Doyle's disappointment that when the men came back to the sitting room one was indeed the other's fan…but it was Mr. Podgers, insisting that Holmes had to be an as of yet unacknowledged sensitive of the highest calibre.

Holmes' desperate look made Watson chuckle.


	21. Chapter 21

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. Today's prompt comes from Book girl fan: what does Moriarty do for Christmas? Thanks! Kind of a sequel to one of my past years' snippets._

"Moran, you'll have to miss your Christmas reunion," Moriarty announced one week before the holiday.

"My father won't appreciate it, sir," the sniper replied with a shrug.

"And my brothers won't appreciate me not being present to their traditional celebration, but I'd rather die than being subjected once again to being everyone's favourite uncle Jamie," the professor all but growled.

Moran couldn't help it. He chuckled. "I don't like the old man's criticism either, sir. I just mentioned it because your orders were to keep him from snapping and disowning me, but if you can concoct me a good excuse, I'll be more than happy to join you instead. Maybe I can tell him the same thing you told your family?"

"I don't think so. Do you have students hidden somewhere and do you need do prepare the exams for them?" Moriarty sneered.

"Can't say I have, no. well, I hope you'll help me out with a good reason then. And what's the plan? Are we actually working on Christmas?" his companion inquired, with a disarming smile.

"Gosh, Moran, no! I want to have a good one for once. Paris! Good food, maybe the opera afterward, or whatever we'll be in the mood for at the moment. No children, no relatives, no annoyances," Moriarty explained in earnest.

"Sounds like heaven…" the sniper sighed. "I have to ask, though: why me?"

"You're my insurance, Moran, _obviously_. Nothing is supposed to happen. But in case anything does, I'll count on you to right things for me," the professor said.

"Oh, of course. Obviously. It's still kind of you, sir. Thanks for thinking of me," Moran replied, repressing another smile. The man's mood seemed volatile tonight.

"Don't be stupid now. Who else is there?"


	22. Chapter 22

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. Today's prompt comes from Wordwielder: Puppies. Thank you! :D ?OOC Mr. Sherman probably, I apologise._

Holmes was always happy when a case required him to use Toby. He might not be too effusive about it, but he had a fondness for the keen-nosed mutt. When he received a message from Mr. Sherman, its owner, about unspecified news about the dog, he went immediately to visit him. The sleuth wouldn't admit it. but he was worried that Toby might have been hurt.

Mr. Sherman welcomed him with a smile, though, and said, "I might not have kept Toby locked too well lately…and it was only half accidentally. I did acquire some new guests, though, and thought you might want to meet them".

Toby recognised Holmes and wagged his tail excitedly from his new cage. He'd been moved to a much larger one, and he wasn't alone anymore. A black and tan female, which clearly had at least some of the bloodhound, but crossed with a smaller breed (possibly beagle) was at his side, and six puppies in all possible mixes of brown, white and black were nursing.

"You bred him," the detective remarked – uncharacteristically for him stating the obvious.

"Actually, the rascal bred himself, but I trusted his taste. And seeing the mum, I thought that these little ones might be useful, once grown up and properly trained. You have a few associates, don't you? Little ones who might need to track someone down for you?" Mr. Sherman offered, smiling.

"My Irregulars would surely benefit from being able to borrow the puppies, once they've grown. This is a most kind offer I am very happy to accept in their stead," Holmes replied.

"Thought it might be a nice idea. Do let them know to come round sometimes, uh? The earlier the puppies get used to them, the better it will be," the animal keeper mentioned, shrugging.

"Are you sure? You might have more company than you ever wished to," the sleuth pointed out, with a half-smile.

"I'm sure we'll reach a compromise." 


	23. Chapter 23

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. Yesterday's prompt comes from Book girl fan: Marry Me. Thank you and sorry for the lateness! ^^'_

"Marry me."

Alexander Norton blinked, apparently flabbergasted into speechlessness.

"A yes or no would be nice, dear," Irene remarked, raising a thin eyebrow.

"Why?" he asked instead, frowning.

"Because you're the best man I've ever met, and I've met my fair share of them. Because there's someone that makes a point of harassing me for his past errors, and he'll back down once I'm married. Because I'm in a bit of a rush and can't wait for your delicate sensibilities, which I so admire, to decide you've courted me long enough to hazard asking for my hand in marriage. Because I'm about to leave and you won't follow unless it's entirely proper for you to do so, and I think you might flourish more where I'm going. Take your pick," she replied, shrugging. _Because I love you_ , she didn't say. Just in case a no was coming. She was pretty sure of his feelings, but she was too used to protect herself.

At that, he laughed. "Yes, my dove, yes, of course. I just wish you had told me of your troubles before, I would have found a way to help. I should have known that you're too unique for our courtship to be common."


	24. Chapter 24

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. Today's prompt is from cjnwriter: "Christmas is not a time nor a season, but a state of mind. To cherish peace and goodwill, to be plenteous in mercy, is to have the real spirit of Christmas." - Calvin Coolidge Thank you!_

Holmes had always been whimsical in his choice of music. Still, Christmas carols in June was something that felt odd to me. We hadn't even had any case recently involving any detail that could have influenced his mood.

I couldn't help myself. I asked, "Not that I complain about today's musical entertainment…but what brought this on?"

"You," my friend replied simply, abandoning his music in the middle of a bar.

"How?" I inquired, frowning.

"You haven't even grumbled when my latest experiment had an unexpected conclusion. I take that for granted way too often. I suddenly realised that most people only see that kind of forgiveness in Christmas stories meant to edify children, certainly not in real life. So I felt compelled to add an adequate accompaniment," he explained, with a soft smile.

"You flatter me," I said, blushing.

"I only observe, my dear."


	25. Chapter 25

_Disclaimer: I still don't own a thing. A.N. Today's prompt comes from Hades Lord of the Dead: The big day. Thanks to her. And to everyone, a very merry Christmas, or whichever holiday you celebrate!_

It had started like an ordinary day. Well, started…the consulting detective had been so focused on his scientific research lately that days started blending into each other, and he would have needed to pay attention to when one day finished and another started.

If he'd been foretold that the following day would become highly significant both for him and for many people all around the world for centuries to come, he would have – correctly – deduced that his ardent studies were about to bear the desired fruits…and he would have been wrong.

If the mysterious seer felt like ignoring the moment of the day and instead simply assure him that he was about to find a companion for life, Holmes would have scoffed. He was only too aware of his own failings, and that he was a hard man to tolerate for the majority of people, much less capable of endearing himself with any lasting effect. His record said it all.

Still, when decades down the road he fondly looked back to the day all changed, it wasn't about his much-needed blood test he thought. Honestly, he would have probably forgotten when it happened if not for the coincidence with the meeting that changed his life forever…and the one that – for our own benefit, not that he cared – carved him a place in history.


	26. Chapter 26

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything. A. N. Today's prompt is from mrspencil: a sleigh ride. Thanks! This is actually historically documented (sort of…). There really was a notable blizzard in January 1881 (it even has its own wiki page). As for the opinion of the ambassador, there is a really fun article about it: How to Conduct a Sleigh Ride, published in Holmes County Farmer of Millersburg, Ohio, on January 26, 1865. Given the newspaper's name, I couldn't help but giggle and use it. You can find it at: 3wdot kristinholt .com(slash) archives / 8777 Sorry for the messed up I wrote the address but you have no idea how much trouble that was. To any American reader of mine, sorry-notsorry (well, not enough to stop myself ;D)._

Mycroft sighed. They were in winter, sure. Still, the blizzard was beyond anything he'd seen in London. If he wanted to be buried in snow and ice, he'd have picked a career in Scotland. He fleetingly thanked heaven that the Christmas season was just recently gone. Proper celebrations ensured he was even more carefully insulated than usual. He really didn't know how his brother would fare. There was a reason if arctic creatures didn't count only on heavy coats for their protection – and the weather certainly felt polar now.

As much as he wanted to never leave his bed, his superiors wouldn't like that. Politics didn't stop because of a bit of wind and snow. And the American ambassador still expected their meeting to happen as planned.

Now, if only the man could stick to the matter to be discussed, Mycroft would have been very grateful. Instead, he was welcomed with, "Amazing weather, isn't it? Reminds me so much of back home. Shame apparently here in London you're not equipped with proper sleighs, and you really don't want to use a normal carriage in these conditions. Can you get me one? I'd love to enjoy a ride…especially if you could find me a young widow – they make the best companions."

Frankly, this was a request with which the elder Holmes was not equipped to deal.


	27. Chapter 27

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. Yesterday's prompt (sorry about that ^^''') was from Hades Lord of the Dead: Horoscope (I don't mind your interpretation but would love to have some kind of observation/nod to Holmes' and Watson's own star signs and whether there's any truth to them or not!). Thank you! Of course, we're not sure when Watson's birthday was, so I picked the interpretation that puts his birth at 7 August 1852 for my own goals. They end up having the same signs as my maternal grandparents, so I'm used to the combination!_

Holmes is beyond frustrated with Doyle's influence on Watson. Every time the man comes along, he's just discovered one theory more unfounded and ridiculous than the last one, and he tries to talk his friend into believing it might as well be gospel. Honestly, the consulting detective is puzzled by how (and most importantly why) such a dreamer would have picked medicine or managed to get his degree. Doyle has clearly not acquired a scientific attitude.

But for some reason the man has become his Boswell's agent, editor and shield from the most annoying part of public all rolled into one, so there is no way the sleuth can talk Watson into ditching him.

Usually, these visits always end in a row if Holmes does not wisely find an excuse to leave as soon as Doyle comes in. But today it's snowing, and he won't be chased away by his own sitting room (and the hearth) by the man coming to discuss the story for the Christmas edition of the Strand.

Unsurprisingly, they all too soon leave the matter of the necessary edits (really, most of the useless flourishes can be laid at Doyle's door) and somehow they end up chatting about astrology. "You should have a couple natal chart made; that's much more accurate than the day to day horoscopes you find on the newspaper," Doyle says earnestly, raising his glass.

Watson blanches at the wording, of course. That's not something you can casually mention in polite company.

That cues the silly man, who blushes and corrects himself quickly, spluttering, "Not in any romantic way, of course! I would never… But it's truly suggested that even business partners analyse their compatibility to maximise the advantages of their cooperation. Any serious astrologer would be able to better your association."

At that, Watson chuckles, simply out of the rebound from the earlier shock. "I doubt any of them could stop Holmes from playing his violin when the rest of the world is sleeping," he replies.

"Oh well. You never know. Still, it appears you've instinctively realised what your most indicated roles would be, but there's always room for improvement," his agent declares, shrugging.

"And that would be?" Holmes asks, just to have more data to criticise the man's insanity.

"You're a Capricorn, yes? Birthday at the start of January if I'm not mistaken? Of course you're the logician. The one handling the finances and the 'technical' parts of the job. And our dear Watson here, he's in charge of advertising. Believing what you're about to sell is indeed the best is always the easiest way to convince others to buy it. Any Leo will always be honestly persuaded that anything he's involved in automatically is the best thing since sliced bread," Doyle expounded.

Before Holmes could remark on it, Watson quipped, "You have it all in reverse, Doyle. Hope your astrologers will do better than that. I don't tout Holmes as amazing because I'm involved in his investigation. He is. That's a fact. Which helps me being honest in my advertising, I suppose."


	28. Chapter 28

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. Today's prompt is from Wordwielder: Coats. Thank you! This comes from real life – it happened to the mother of one of dad's colleagues._

Watson had seen a lot in the course of his profession. Happy events (not as often as he would have liked, given that he'd spent much more of his career with the dying than with expecting mothers), tragic events (far too many), lucky 'boring' days when his patients were only affected by minor ailments. Even a number of frustrating hypochondriacs determined to be ill when they were in actuality in better health than he was.

And sometimes, even in the saddest of days, there was something to smile about. Like the old woman who'd come for a simple rheumatism and showed signs of starting dementia. That was definitely saddening, and Watson made a mental note to have a talk with her relatives to see if she could be looked after. But the symptom she exhibited still made him hide a smile.

She'd started chatting about her daily life, her mind wandering away from her pain, and she said, "Life is so hard! And others make it harder for you on purpose. Like my Socks – no, not clothing, that's my cat. So long, and he's never changed his shirt! And he won't let me catch him to change it for him. And people say cats are clean!"

The doctor couldn't blame the cat – though with Silver Blaze's case fresh in his mind, he knew very well just how easy it was to get a pet to change coats. He wondered idly if he should suggest her relatives do that – would it make his patient less frustrated, or would it be worse for her? He might ask a second opinion on that.


	29. Chapter 29

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. Today's prompt is from cjnwriter: "Lestrade is acting strangely. Why?" Thank you!_

Usually Lestrade didn't call at 221B for social visits. As worthy of admiration as Holmes was, he wasn't exactly the kind of man you wanted to just share a glass and smoke with – and honestly, he doubted that the consulting detective would appreciate it too, if Hopkins was any evidence. The youngest inspector's attempts at friendship had been encountered with enthusiastic lessons in deduction, but not really a sociable attitude.

So when Lestrade visited, despite being informed by Mrs. Hudson that the detective was out, Watson – who was at home, offered to take a message and any detail of the case.

The inspector replied, "Oh, there's no case at present," shrugging. The doctor immediately worried that he was the one being sought, and asked about Lestrade's and his family's health, only to once again be assured that they were all well. In the meantime, the policeman continued fidgeting and not-so-covertly glancing around.

Watson frowned, wondering what was up. But apparently all the inspector wanted was to chat about the weather, his wife's cooking talent, and other apparently random subjects, before he left with the most cheerful wishes of the season.

When Holmes' returned, his flatmate tried to discuss their acquaintance's odd behaviour, but as soon as he was informed that no work was on sight Holmes cut him off. There had been no interesting case in a while, and that always made the sleuth cranky.

The Mystery of the Equivocal Inspector solved itself on Christmas Eve, when a 'secret Santa' gift appeared on their threshold for Holmes.

"If he was really committed to secrecy, he might have persuaded someone else to write the address and well wishes for him…as if I wouldn't recognised Lestrade's calligraphy despite the shoddy attempt at changing it," the detective huffed.

The content of the package was a small block of amber-coloured summer rosin. "Thoughtful of him to notice I'd almost finished my reserve of him. I certainly didn't mention it. It appears the good inspector can conduct his own investigations when he wants," he added, in a much more light-hearted mood.

 _Next goal: don't look like a crook during them,_ Watson thought to himself, a smile fluttering on his lips.


	30. Chapter 30

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. Today's prompt is from Hades Lord of the Dead: Holmes finds freedom in cross dressing. Thank you so very much! Fair warning to my readers: this one will be johnlock. If it's not your cup of tea, you might want to avoid it._

Watson immortalised the consulting detective's acting prowess. Whether the case required an ascetic priest, a rowdy sailor, or a charming plumber, or any other persona, Holmes could be so convincing as to dupe the people closest to him, to say nothing of strangers.

What his Boswell carefully kept under wraps, was that male roles were not the only ones the sleuth shined in. Knowing that his lover would have tried to dissuade him if informed of his plans, Holmes opted for a demonstration first.

When the good doctor came back home that day, he greeted the beautiful lady that made herself comfortable on the settee, mentally scolding Mrs. Hudson for not informing him that they had a client. He made Holmes' excuses, citing his associate's odd hours, and offered charming conversation for a good half a hour before he heard a deep chuckle he knew only too well.

Watson actually looked around, happy that clearly Holmes was finally back home, but seeing the room just as empty he frowned for a moment. It took Miss Amabelle Vernon throwing 'herself' at him and kissing him before he could stop her for the doctor to realise the obvious, so perfect the disguise was.

After that, there was no way Watson could object to his lover's plans. Every now and then, Miss Amabelle would appear, and the two of them would go out on a 'proper' date. True, too public demonstrations of affection would still be frowned upon. But a stolen kiss or flirting wouldn't have them thrown in jail if spied. And frankly, the way Holmes blushed when his lover said he had the most beautiful lady of all London at his arm was adorable. 


	31. Chapter 31

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. Today's prompt is from Winter Winks 221: drinking contest. Thank you so much! To Hades Lord of the Dead for organising this and to everyone who provided prompts, participated, or just read, you all made my December great And a very happy new year to all!_

Generally, alcohol was neither of the 221B Baker Street flatmates' vice of choice. They would have a drink if they needed to warm up, or to wave away a principle of cold, and they would occasionally celebrate with a good wine as well as good food, but overindulgence was rare.

Of course, every rule had its exceptions. Which was why once, when no persuasion nor bribery could convince Watson to participate to a certain experiment, Holmes proposed a bet. Well, not exactly a bet. A drinking contest – it was the season, after all, and Mrs. Hudson's mulled wine was lovely – with the winner determining his scientific endeavours.

"I can…drink…another," the detective slurred two hours later.

"Holmes, please, do we really need to go on until you pass out? You're not going to outdrink me. do I need to prove it by reciting the elements?" the doctor said, trying to take the glass away from his friend's hands.

"But whyyyyy?" Holmes whined.

"Because for once, you assumed, my dear. You thought that with my brother's sad example, I would have kept mostly away from everything alcoholic and not have drunk enough to build any tolerance to it. The data you lack is - this is far from my first drinking contest. I've always been able to drink my brother under the table. I just didn't see the point of doing so too often," Watson replied, unable to contain a smug smile. He might not be drunk, but he was pleasantly buzzed.

"That's…cheating," the sleuth complained.

"We'll discuss this when your brain is fully functioning. Now it's off to bed for you, come on," the doctor prompted, tugging his friend up and towards his room. Thankfully, Holmes didn't try to resist.


End file.
